We'll Make This Thing Work
by eris-11
Summary: "A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person." -Mignon McLaughlin. Moments from the seventeen years between the first time Rachel Cameron met Matthew Morgan to the day he disappeared. Every relationship is a work in progress, and a relationship between two spies is no exception.
1. Late Nights

September 13th, 1997

**2341 hours**

_Matt_

Something was completely different about Rachel as she lay next to me. We were in our usual position when we weren't arguing about something—me big spoon, her little spoon—and her hand was holding mine. But she was still awake because a) she was holding _tightly_, and b) she was touching my wedding band. I didn't have to look to know she was staring straight ahead, biting her lip.

"Rachel, what's wrong? You're starting to worry me," I murmured, sliding a hand up her arm.

"What?" Her voice was absent, like she'd only just noticed I was there and touching my hand was just a reflex.

I sighed. "Baby, c'mon. You haven't slept."

"Neither have you. Not for long, anyway."

"Tell me what's on your mind," I asked. "You're never this tense."

She turned into me and the motion was almost submissive; without meaning to, I held her tighter, pulling her as close as I could. Her hand grazed a scar on my side, sliding up my shirt and lingering there.

Her voice was soft. "Jerusalem, right? This time last year? A knife wound."

"Good recall."

She paused. "It was a close one," she mumbled, replaying the incident in her head

I shook my head. "We're not playing the guilt game tonight, Rachel. You were doing the far more important work of saving hostages at the time."

"I should've killed him while I had the chance. Quick, clean. It would've been so easy for me to do that and spare you the pain."

"Rachel—"

"I was up with Cammie last week, while you were still gone in Ibiza, and she asked me if you were okay. Of course I told her yes. But I thought back to when I saw you come back out that abandoned synagogue and your side was covered in blood, the wound was so much bigger than it should've been and you were already so _pale_. All I remember thinking of was, _You need to live. Our daughter needs a dad_. And I need my husband."

"I'm good at this, Rachel. And so are you. I'll be fine. Always."

"Don't lie to me like that. I've never lied to you."

And she was right. For all her occasional frigidness, Rachel was always candid. She never said anything she didn't mean and she despised pleasantries-she never lied. I sat up and she sat up with me, the strap of her tank top drifting off her shoulder and her hair messy from the pillow. My wife looked exhausted.

"You're right. I'm sorry. But I can't stop saying it. If I do, it…it leaves room for doubt. And none of us need that."

Her expression tightened and I saw her eyes move away from me, dark brown spheres but bright in the dark. "I don't say it much, because you're right about leaving room for doubt. But our careers _do_ terrify me. I love the fighting, I love the intrigue, I love the travel, and I love that I'm _good_ at it. But it's not solid. It can fall like a house of fucking cards and that makes me want to hold onto you, to hold onto Cammie, to make sure we can't go anywhere."

I held her face in my hands, her perfect, unbelievably beautiful face. "We'll be fine, Rachel. Believe that. Please. And even if we're not, we'll get through it." I managed to smile at her, remembering her incredible resolve after her parents died. "You're made of _iron_."

"Not when it comes to you." She slipped her hands over mine. "When it comes to my family, I'm made of porcelain."

I started to say something else, but turned immediately as our bedroom door creaked open, letting in a crack of light from the hallway.

"Mommy? Daddy?" Cammie's voice was tiny as she stood there, holding her stuffed cat around his neck in a chokehold.

Rachel changed back to confident motherhood as if a switch had been flipped. "What is it, kiddo? It's so late, you should be in bed."

"I can't sleep. I had a bad dream."

My wife and I looked at each other and I turned back to Cammie. "Come on, little lady. You're safe with us."

Cammie nodded and sniffled before fumbling towards the bed. Rachel picked her up with a relatively impressive degree of strength—even considering her being a spy—and deposited her between us.

"Why are _you_ awake?" Cammie asked as I shuffled the covers around us.

There was a millisecond pause before I said, "Talking. Now you just get some shut eye, we're going to the playground tomorrow, remember?"

Cammie smiled at this and immediately snuggled down into the pillows. I kissed her on the forehead. "Nighty night, little lady."

"Night, Daddy, night Mommy. I love you."

"Love you, too, kiddo." Rachel sank back into the sheets and so did I, and we both stayed awake until Cammie's breathing evened out into sleep.

Rachel sighed. "You see what I meant?" she whispered, and kissed Cammie on the cheek before tucking her hair behind her ear. "Porcelain."

Somehow, all three of us managed to get to sleep.


	2. Average

**(A/N: This scene is inspired by the movie poster for ****_This is 40_****, and the scene at the end is an exact take from that.)**

* * *

September 23rd, 2001

**0810 hours**

_Rachel_

It was probably some kind of witchcraft—it had to be. Our ability to switch between being an adept, dangerous pair of spies and an average, vaguely-annoyed-with-each-other married couple was uncanny. Somewhere along the way, between the birth of a child and buying a home and having to spend mutual money, I'd started wearing less lacy pajamas and more old t-shirts, and he'd started using a razor less and less when he wasn't on missions. Joe had told me and so had Abby—we were quickly becoming almost 40.

Neither Matt nor I had been on a mission in almost two weeks, a complete novelty for in-demand CIA agents like us. Both of us had been in and out of Langley doing various desk tasks and paperwork, while Joe and Abby were busy taking care of a terrorist cabal somewhere in Ukraine. And of course, our presence at home absolutely delighted Cammie—rarely did she get the treat of having both parents around, so she was spending as much time with us as possible.

But for once, our daughter wasn't awake before us. She was an incredibly routine-oriented child, but on weekends her sleep schedule varied between waking up at 6 and waking up at 9, and expecting waffles from Matthew regardless of the time. I was sprawled out on the left side of the bed and Matt was draped on the right; I didn't have to look to know that his arm was dangling off the mattress and his upper pillow had somehow navigated to the very edge of the bed. I also didn't have to look to know there was drool on said pillow.

He grumbled and grunted something before tugging at his pillow like it was a teddy bear, hugging it tightly. I tugged at the duvet, vaguely realizing that I'd taken most of it.

"What time is it?" Matt mumbled, half muffled by the sheets. He looked the way he always did when he slept: a mass of gray t-shirt and plaid boxers, punctuated by a tousled mop of blond hair. And the blond hair was all I could see, as per usual.

I rolled over onto my back. "We've got the _whole week_ off—why does that worry you?"

Matt grunted. "The Cameron countdown. She'll be in here any minute."

"The word 'countdown' implies that our child has a schedule. She does not." But I sat up anyway and scratched at my hair, tangled from sleep. "It's past eight, babe, that's all."

"Hmmphfff…" he grumbled, and I think he went back to sleep.

I climbed out of our wide bed and dragged myself to the bathroom, yawning. I pulled open the door and immediately groaned.

"Matthew, seriously?" I moaned, shoving at his still-damp towel from the night before, which he'd left on the floor.

There was a half-formed swear word in return, but nothing else.

I rolled my eyes and tied up my hair. Maybe someday he'd stop leaving his towels scattered about the bathroom, but today was clearly nowhere near that day. I turned on the faucet, rinsing off my hands before washing my face with icy cold water.

The half-opened bathroom door creaked open and Matt ambled in, scratching his ass before going to the toilet, dropping his boxers, and peeing.

I didn't pause before grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste.


	3. Distress

**(A/N: In this story, Rachel's codename is Panther, Matt's is Everyman, and Abby's is Sapphire. And as for the location, I wanted to pick a place that isn't frequently used for this kind of storyline, so I'm sorry if I offend anyone. I invented the Msizi.)**

* * *

February 10th, 1990

**0630 hours**

_Matt_

The Chinese water torture was done, and that was a relief; I could still feel the drops hitting my forehead, a phantom sensation that would probably last for several weeks if I got out of this alive. They'd left me there, of course, with only a guard or two outside the doors because they knew I was too weak to attempt a good escape. The straps that bound my wrists and ankles were leather, not metal, which was nice, but they were tight, just a bit less than cutting off my circulation, enough to drive me cra—

No. That is definitely _not_ the right word, even for a mission report like this.

I was in a concrete and steel bunker in South Africa, in some remote city that only spies and terrorists would ever go to. Technically, my mission had gone bad—I'd made a misstep two days before and gotten myself in the hands of the terrorist group known as the Msizi, who were manipulated politicians in the southern half of the continent. But I'd replayed every second of the hour leading up to my capture a hundred times in my mind, and I knew it wasn't my fault; I had just gotten very, very unlucky. God knew what time it was—I was guessing early morning, but my mind was enough of a mess for my internal clock to be a bit unreliable. There were no windows, and I knew it was because if you see light, you have hope. But it would take a lot more than a lack of glass to make Matt Morgan break down.

They came back for me in what felt like an hour, with some metal implements I hadn't seen before and prayed to God I'd never see again. It was the only time I'd ever screamed from torture.

The leader of the group, a biracial man with a gnarly acid burn along his neck named Wikus Morne, gave me one last bitter punch to the face. "We'll get those names out of you, you son of a bitch. I don't care what it takes." His nails left crescents in the skin of my neck before he and his two guards left the room; I watched him leave with hazy, half-focused vision. The room around me was lit by flickering, yellow lights that hurt my vision, so I closed my eyes for some semblance of relief. I didn't have to look to know that the space around me was empty, save for a few other gurneys like the one I'd been on for my first day before they decided to strap me up and suspend me. I luckily still had my pants on, but they'd taken my shoes, shirt, and jacket, and with them my radio.

There was silence outside, and then I heard a loud, sudden yell, shock that quickly became pain. Several thumps, neat and clean and final, a few snaps, and a grunt that even in my muddled mess, I recognized as being Rachel's.

More silence, and then the locked clicked and the door swung open. Rachel looked as striking (literally) as usual, clad in the normal mission garb of jeans, a black shirt, boots, and a jacket—an angel sent from heaven to get me out of this hell. She wiped a bit of blood from her forehead and pushed a strand of glossy hair out of her face as she focused on me.

"Well then. It's rare that the damsel comes to rescue the knight from the fearsome dragon." I mumbled, smiling for the first time in days and feeling it crack my lips.

Rachel walked up to me and pulled out a knife, making me flinch. She gave me a quick, soft smile and leaned up to kiss me on the cheek before using said knife to slice open the leather straps on my ankles. "And to think the Chief had me convinced you were dead," she muttered, sounding both annoyed and relieved.

"I'm hard to kill, Panther. I'm surprised he had so little faith in me," I replied, trying not to tense up as she cut open the restraints on my wrists.

Rachel frowned, grasping my arms as I fell. "You were out for three days past your contact time, and you missed a cutout. Even _I_ was starting to doubt it."

I gripped her shoulder like a lifeline and she returned the motion, holding me close to her as she supported my weight. "I fucked up, somehow. I don't plan to do it again."

"Good to know." She glanced up and around, looking for snipers or friendlies or members of the Msizi or something, but then she spoke into a radio on her collar.

"I've got Everyman, Sapphire, get ready to break things down. The bomb is secure?"

I dimly heard Abby's voice on the other side. "It is. Detonation ready?"

"Give us five minutes. After that, blow the place, regardless of whether or not you hear from us."

"I…" Abby cleared her throat. "Copy that."

Rachel shifted her grip on me as we navigated down the hallway. "I'm really glad you can walk, this would be much harder if you couldn't," she noted.

"I didn't know Abby was coming."

Rachel lifted an eyebrow. "She wasn't. They brought me in because they knew I'd find you, but Abby was in Tanzania up until yesterday."

"Did you really call her?" I asked, wincing in pain as we hobbled along a bit faster. I couldn't help but notice all the dead terrorist bodies scattered here and there along the hallway, blood spattering the grimy walls. The good, kind half of me wanted to sympathize, but my body still hurt too much from the torture they'd inflicted.

"I needed the help. What's broken? Any ribs?" she asked immediately, reacting to my pain.

"I'm fine, Panther, let's just get out of here."

There was a look on Rachel's face, something deep and emotional and almost scared, but it went away quickly enough for me to think I'd hallucinated it in my exhaustion. "Absolutely."


	4. Dying

May 14th, 2004

**2113 hours**

_Rachel_

When something bad happens, people tend to say things like, "I died on the inside," or "It killed me." Because of the nature of my job, I never used those expressions, nor did I think it was possible to actually feel like you were dying when you actually weren't.

But it was.

I had been tortured before, but knives and drops of water were nothing compared to what I felt now.

It was almost as if, for the hours that passed after I had put Cammie to sleep, I could feel myself breaking apart, my heart straining to beat because pumping blood was too hard in the face of my grief.

A part of me had disappeared with Matthew…a part of me had _died _with Matthew, and I knew it would never, ever come back to life.

I didn't cry, as I lay on his side of the bed, unwilling to move; I couldn't. The back of my mind was telling me to accept what had happened, that I had a life to live and a child to raise and I couldn't afford to be a hollow shell of my former self. . .but every other part of me was screaming, sobbing, throwing things, denying the fact that my husband was gone.

I had no concept of time-I didn't want to sleep anyway. Not when he wasn't with me. Not when I was dying.

It could have been eight o'clock or midnight when I heard the door rasp open, a sliver light creeping in through the crack.

"Mom?"

I shifted slightly, lacking the strength to do any more than that.

Cammie came towards the bed and crawled onto the sheets; her cheeks were red and her eyes were puffy. She curled up next to me and, without thinking, my arm went around her.

That was when I started to cry. It was just small sobs, and I was determined to keep it that way for the sake of the child in my arms, but Cammie had always been observant. She tucked her head into my shoulder and held me tightly. I didn't have to look at her to know how much of Matt she had inherited, in her dishwater blonde hair and her hazel eyes, constantly changing colors, her unexpectedly witty sense of humor, her unfailing sense of right and wrong, her ability to disappear in the crowd like she was made of smoke.

I realized I wasn't just crying for my husband, lost to me—I was crying for my daughter, because she would never know him past the age of twelve.

"It'll be okay, Mom."

"I know, sweetheart…I know."

She was the one piece of Matthew I had left, and I was going to protect her.


	5. Birth

**2337 hours**

_Matt_

As a spy, I should have been ashamed of myself. I had let my guard down completely, paying no attention to the world around me. I knew I was in a hospital, and it was maybe past nine-thirty, and I was extremely tired, but I felt as though I was stuck to my chair, watching my wife and four-hour old daughter sleep soundly on the bed in front of me.

I felt like I could look at them forever.

I could feel a smile on my face, a smaller version of the one that had been there since I first saw my wailing, squirming baby girl enter the world. A part of me felt like that little smile was never going to go away.

I was a father. I had a little girl to raise and nurture and protect, a little girl who I was going to put to sleep at night and kiss in the morning, a little girl who would call me "Daddy."

This was without question the most stressful, difficult, amazing, and perfect day of my entire life.

"Matt, you can, like, leave the room. You got back from Peru and came straight here, and I don't need to tell you how pissed Rachel will be if you die of hunger or exhaustion or something because you refused to get up." I hadn't heard Abby enter the room; her footsteps were totally silent.

I didn't look up at her. "I don't want to miss anything," I said quietly, not wanting to wake them up.

She chuckled lightly. "I thought you'd say something sappy like that." She carefully placed a chair beside me and sat down, and handed me a bottle of water. "So. A new father. How does it feel?"

I ran a hand through my hair, breathing in deep. "I just can't believe how lucky I am," I murmured. "I mean. . .seriously, I feel like I'm dreaming. My _wife _just _gave birth_ to a bouncing baby _girl._ I just. . ." I was at a loss for words.

Abby didn't speak at first; I could tell she was watching her sister, probably wondering how much this would change things. "I just want to warn you now, Matt—I'm gonna spoil the hell out of the squirt whenever I can," she murmured.

"I don't doubt that in slightest." I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes. "Things are so different now."

"Yeah. The baby's out, that's one thing."

"Well, yes, obviously the process was a success, but… Look at her, Abby. Little, tiny, fragile, perfect Cameron Ann Morgan. Just _four hours old_. I…God, Abby, I've never loved anything this much before. I feel like I could tear down a mountain right now."

Abby gently rubbed my shoulder, smiling at me. "And I could swim across the Atlantic in one breath. She's strangely empowering, that teensy new human lying on my sister."

"I'm scared, Abby." The words were escaping me before I could stop them, and Abby reared back slightly to look at me.

When she spoke, it was blunt. "That's stupid of you," she said immediately. She leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands together. She was six years younger than Rachel but she became much wiser than 23 as she spoke. "Yes, you're going to live the rest of your life in fear for your daughter, torn between wanting her to visit every country in the world and live life to its fullest and needing to put her in bubble for her safety, but I'm sitting here looking at your tired-ass face and my ragged big sister and I realize that you will be exactly the father that Cameron needs." She cocked an eyebrow and became 23-year-old Abby again. "And either way, she's got me. She'll be perfectly fine."

I grinned and was about to respond when Rachel shifted, tucking Cameron in closer to her. "Would you two _shhh_? Either that or take it outside..." she mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Ah. Sorry, darlin.' We'll let you two get your sleep," I said guiltily. I stood up and Abby stood up with me, leaning in to kiss her sister on the cheek before leaving the room. I followed and closed the door behind us as softly as possible, and immediately squinted at the bright lights outside of the dimly lit hospital room. Being in the real world of the hospital again made me realize how awful the two of us looked, our clothes wrinkled and our eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

Abby turned to me. "So when are you gonna send photos to Joe? He'll want to see her," she said.

I ran a hand through my hair, which was in dire need of a comb. "As soon as he contacts me, I'll send some his way. He's in Eastern Europe now."

"Cool, he'll appreciate it. He-no wait, _shit_. On second thought, I probably shouldn't tell you to take pictures of your kid, you'll never stop."

She was absolutely right, so I just grinned like the happiest new dad on the planet and she smacked my arm, rolling her eyes and trying to seem annoyed but laughing anyway.


	6. Hello

February 2nd, 1987

**2352 hours**

_Rachel_

I always find myself telling my little sister that the worst part of being a spy isn't the danger—it's the paperwork. After all, when you're on a ship home from Naples with a defused bomb in your suitcase, the last thing you want to do is write a report about it. And indeed, I stand behind that claim wholeheartedly. Sure, the Stockholm mission was fun and all—Grace and I could always have a good time together—but it was hell transcribing the events of that week onto paper.

It was almost midnight and I was still at my desk in HQ at Langley, exhausting myself over the last few pages of said mission report. There were photographs ranging from grainy and taken from hundreds of feet away to so perfect I could make out facial scars, frantically scribbled notes in my handwriting and copies of things Grace had written, and at least seven plastic bags of evidence like hair or parts of documents. It was awful conduct to have all of my evidence strewn around the table, but it wasn't a problem until someone walked by.

"Oh! I had no clue someone was still here, I'll just-I'll just go." The intruder/speaker was ordinary in every way, shape, and form—dishwater blond hair, eyes whose color I couldn't fully see in the dim lighting, and an average CIA agent musculature underneath his jacket and jeans. Matthew Morgan, Blackthorne alum, Georgetown graduate, infamously good pavement artist, and the man I'd spent five days with in Prague two weeks ago. He had a plain, worn-out messenger bag hanging at his shoulder and a bottle of water in his left hand.

"Matthew! Hi!" I said in surprise, standing up. And of course, in standing up, I hit my desk and half my things went flying. "Crap…"

He rushed forward like a gentleman, putting down his things to offer me aid. "Oh no! Let me help you out with that…" He knelt down to grab the things that had flown a bit farther and I took care of what had fallen under the desk. He carefully deposited everything back onto my desk and then paused. "Haven't seen you since Prague."

"I know. You did some good work."

Matt grinned. "Are you referring to losing that KGB tail in the middle of the restaurant, or the fight that came after?"

I smiled back without totally meaning to. "Both, now that you mention it." I replied. He was charming, if not a bit dorky for my tastes.

"Are you… Not to be too personal, but did you graduate from Gallagher?"

"Oh. Yes, yes I did." This particular agent was becoming more and more interesting by the minute. Now that I was standing in front of him, studying him like the spy I was, I realized I'd seen him quite a bit before, at debriefs and talking with Joe in the third floor break room and working the punching bag in the lower levels. He was a pavement artist, and I had _seen_ him, which was quite a feat. "You have the clearance for that?"

"It's not hard to get. From what I hear, they give it to high school girls." From lots of people in the AlphaNet, the phrase would've been condescending or rude, but from him, it was teasing and genuine, without a hint of disrespect.

"All the time, Mr. Morgan." I didn't mean to give him my shy smile, the one almost no one alive had ever even seen, but it came out anyway; it felt almost foreign on my face. "As much as I enjoy chatting, I _do_ have a mission report to finish."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Matthew gave me a quick little bow before grabbing his bag and his water bottle, and I bit back a chuckle. "I'll leave you to it, then, madam" He gave me one last smile before disappearing into the darkness that was Langley after 11 PM.

I started to sort through newly disorganized mess and raised an eyebrow when I saw a new slip of paper, sitting between a Ziploc bag and a bullet casing. I unfolded it to reveal a message written in thin, scrawling, almost illegible handwriting: _Care to talk altitude countersurveillance methods over dinner? From what I've heard, you've got some interesting views on the subject. –MM_

"Oh. Well then, Mr. Morgan."


	7. Father's Day

_(A/N: Honestly, I have no clue how babies and parenting work beyond general logic, so if you have any advice on writing it, feel free to PM me. That being said, I enjoyed writing up this chapter and I absolutely live for Matt/Rachel fluff.)_

* * *

June 16th, 1993

**0730 hours**

_Rachel_

Surprisingly, I woke up to cold sheets on my left side. I rolled over and frowned, noticing that Matt's glass of water was gone and the temperature of the sheets indicated that he'd been out of bed for quite some time. Sloppy, on my part—I should've woken up when he had. But then I realized that there was really only one place he'd be, so I slipped out of bed, put on my robe, and walked to the baby's room.

I paused in the doorway and grinned at seeing Matt holding Cammie, gently moving in the rocking chair, his voice barely above a whisper. The blinds on the window were slightly open and let in warm, even shafts of sunlight.

"And then, we're practically surrounded, just me and your uncle Joe. I was completely shocked because I had no clue how we'd gotten into a mess like that in a city like Toulouse. So we're back to back about to fight off like ten guys who are all practically as well-trained as we are, and then I hear this huge crashing sound and turns out, somehow your aunt Abby managed to steal a Ducati and smash it into a window, just so Joe and I could get out." He let Cam's tiny hands grip his fingers and then said, "Are you just gonna stand there, darlin'?"

"Maybe." I walked up behind him and kissed his cheek, then kissed Cammie's head. "I can't believe you're telling her the Toulouse story."

Matt smiled. "Oh, yeah, you're still annoyed."

"It's not my fault. Every spy girl wishes they could've been the one to crash a motorcycle through a window." I threaded my fingers through his hair and he sighed, leaning back. "I remembered something very important when I woke up."

"Oh?"

"I remembered what today is." I kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Father's Day."

A warm, adorable smile crossed Matt's face. "Wow. Well, thank you." He stood up and handed Cammie to me. "Crazy to think about, isn't it? That we're actually _parents_?"

I chuckled. "Crazy feels like an understatement," I murmured, smiling as Cammie shifted and yawned adorably. She was only a few months old but changing and growing every day at a rate I felt like we couldn't keep up with. "Before we know it, she'll be walking and talking and..."

Matt tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You scared?"

"Oh, of course I am. But I try not to think about that. My most immediate but still long-term concern is how we'll have to redecorate her room in a couple of years," I said, shifting our daughter in my arms and glancing around the room. The current theme was, of course, pink, as much as Abby had rallied against us using gendered decor. It was tidy as usual, two different diaper bags stowed away in the corner and her crib sitting against the wall.

"Hm. I wonder if she'll be a pony lover."

"If she's like you? More than likely." I smiled up at him. "There's a gift for you on the counter, by the way."

Matt hugged me with Cammie's tiny body between us. "Hm. I'll scope it out, but not just yet. This here is a perfect gift," he replied, kissing me.

I rolled my eyes, smiling. "You're so damn cheesy," I mumbled.

"Makes ya smile every time, doesn't it?"

I chuckled and pulled back, turning my full attention to Cammie. "Let's go out to the living room, hm? See what Daddy got for Father's Day," I said to her, and she shook her fists at me.

Matt grinned. "For the love of God, don't say you got me ties," he said, giving my ass a fond pat as I turned to leave the room.

I swatted his hand halfheartedly, laughing. "I didn't get you any, but I make no promises for my sister."


	8. Sheets

_A/N: This is pure, shameless fluff, and I have no regrets. Come to think of it, neither do they ;-)_

* * *

October 21st, 1990

**1145 hours**

_Matt_

It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. The hero always finds solace with his lady when it's pouring rain outside. Frankly, I'd wanted to lock lips with the woman since we'd landed in Glasgow; it had only taken us an entire day of reconnaissance and countersurveillance to do it. I was surprised that _she'd_ taken the initiative for the kiss, but that being said, it was a hell of a damn kiss.

Usually, I never let my libido take control of me, especially not on a mission. Usually, it's never really an issue. But in that moment, that rainy afternoon in rainy Scotland with a clothes-sticking-to-her-beautifully-bright-eyed Rachel, I couldn't help myself. We ended up back in our rented flat, stripping away soaked jeans and ruined shirts, holding each other so close that the air could barely come between us.

It wasn't like we hadn't had sex before, but sometimes, it's just…nice.

**1250 hours**

_Rachel_

Afterward, we just lay there awake in bed, tangled up tightly in sheets and a thick wool blanket once our heat wore off. Learning about someone, mapping them out with roaming hands and tiny little smiles, would never lose its wonder. I would never get tired of lying in bed with him, exchanging tales about scars and lives in quiet whispers.

"And…what's this one from?" I asked, tracing another faded mark on his arm.

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. "You've got Level Seven clearance, but that story is classified."

I pouted. "Are you sure?"

"Very." He kissed down my neck until he met a newer scar on my shoulder. "Tell me about this one." he murmured.

"Well, I was in Paris about two months ago, with someone who we'll call Jack for now, and I did something kinda stupid…I was fighting an assassin, some pretty bitch with blond hair who thought wearing a spy movie catsuit made her a threat or something—"

"Oh, a girlfight? Please, go on." Matt waggled his eyebrows and I gave his hair a tug, rolling my eyes.

"I killed her by throwing her off a bridge. Not what I had initially planned, but still efficient. Don't worry, it wasn't in cold blood, she needed to go. She was a huge bitch anyway."

"I'm sensing some resentment here, Panther…"

I rolled my eyes. "Matt, please, do _not_ call me that in bed…"

"It's the truth, darlin'. But how'd you get the scar?"

"Knife I didn't know she had. I was off that day."

Matt smiled. "I find it hard to believe a lady like you has off days." he said, gently dusting a strand of hair from my face.

"Well, no one's perfect."

"Even if I do come kind of close."

I chuckled. "Don't get cocky there." I kissed his shoulder and curled in closer, lying against his chest. "Hmph. You're kinda like a slab of stone," I muttered, trying in vain to get comfortable.

A smug smirk crossed his face and he folded his hands behind his head. "You're talkin' about stone like _hardness_? Because if so, hmm, I second that motion."

I suddenly desperately wanted to have sex with him again but managed to roll my eyes instead. "That too, but I'm talking about your physique. It's…well, it's actually quite remarkable."

Matt sat up in surprise, cocking an eyebrow at me as the sheet fell from his ridiculously chiseled chest. "What's that supposed to—"

"No, no, no, lie back down." I leaned over him and forced him back to the mattress, making him frown in confusion but then grin in anticipation. "What I mean by _remarkable_ is that people forget that spies have to be in really good shape. You should like, never put a shirt on ever again." I traced the lines of his ab muscles, almost surprised by the sight of him. "How do you even _get_ to this point of a physique…"

"If you keep touching me like that, we're gonna have a problem," Matt said, his voice dropping half an octave. One of his hands-calloused, gentle, greedy-drifted down my neck to hold my waist.

I grinned and leaned down, my hair falling forward. "You should know by now, Agent Morgan-I _love_ problems," I murmured before kissing him.


	9. Proposal

_(A/N: To the guest reviewer who noted my location mistake in the previous chapter, sorry about that! I fixed it, and I'm glad you like the story otherwise. I'll do my best from now on to make sure my geography is right. And on that note, here's the usual "I own nothing, Gallagher Girls is the property of Ally Carter" disclaimer. Also, this is entirely a piece of fiction. There are no crime cabals in Spain in real life that I refer to in this chapter.)_

* * *

December 31st, 1990

**2345 hours**

_Matt_

"_Shit! _Matt, we've got at least five hostiles incoming at two o'clock, how much farther to the outside of this stupid building?" Rachel demanded as she duck and wove behind me around the machinery and plumbing that made up the utility section of the old Spanish hotel we were currently trapped in.

Part of me was surprised that we were living a James Bond chase scene because that _never _happens as much as the movies imply, but most of me was only aware of the literal ticking time bomb that we were running towards. The hotel we were under was the location of a large meeting of Western European diplomats, and the bomb had been planted by a terrorist organization and it was set to blow the entire edifice to smithereens unless we stopped it.

"Hopefully not more than five damn minutes," I muttered, trying not to hit myself on any of the protruding, non workplace-safety-compliant pipes as we sprinted.

Behind us, I heard the coterie of terrorists Rachel had mentioned. "_Los americanos! ¡Ahí están! Atraparlos antes de que salgan del edificio_!" one of them yelled, and Rachel swore under her breath.

"Rachel, go ahead of me, you have the data. I need to buy you some-Rachel?" I asked, suddenly realizing she wasn't behind me anymore. A set of gunshots rippled through the cramped hallway, striking pipes and bricks; a bullet nicked me across the arm but I didn't have time to feel the pain.

"Stairs, look up!" Rachel snapped, her hand dangling down to indicate her location.

I glanced over at the terrorists to make sure I had time to get away from them, and then I quickly began to scale the ladder. Well aware of the angry Spaniards on our tail, I said, "Do you have anything to-"

Rachel tossed down something so it went out of and away from our ladder; it exploded in a fiery plume and for a second I wondered how she'd gotten hold of-or made-a white phosphorus grenade. But then I realized that a) it was better than I not worry about it, and b) her ability to sneak things past me like that was oddly attractive.

We emerged into open air and I found myself taking deep, calming breaths-my heart was racing faster than it should have been. The chase scene we'd just participated in had briefly distracted me from my most important task but now that we had a breather, it was back at the forefront of my mind, making me notice every little thing about Rachel as she moved and spoke.

"The bomb's somewhere on this roof, Abe's intel was definitely right. Now we just need to find it," Rachel said, and reached up a hand to re-tied her hair. "You go left, I go right?"

I nodded, but as I moved, my right pocket felt terribly weighed down. The terrorists had been a flaw in my plan, certainly, but as I looked down at my watch, I realized that my timing was still perfect-if nothing else went wrong, I could still pull this off the way I'd wanted to. Almost as an afterthought, I ripped off a portion of my dress shirt to wrap around my bleeding arm.

_Keep it together, Morgan. First the bomb, then the ring_.

I searched through every nook and crevice on my side, and I was within seconds of jabbing a hole into an air duct in a frustrated attempt to find the damn thing when I heard Rachel's relieved voice.

"Found it, come over here, you're better with bombs than I am," she said, waving to me.

I sprinted over to her and frowned.

"What does that face mean?" Rachel asked apprehensively.

"It means 'I know this kind of explosive but it's more complex than most of the others I've seen, so this will take a while,'" I replied and pulled out my knife.

Footsteps thumped across the roof as the terrorists came towards us and Rachel whipped around, still a vision of beauty even in full-on spy mode. "But we clearly don't have that kind of time," she muttered, cracking her knuckles. "You take care of the bomb, I'll take these clowns."

Rachel-my perfect woman, my other half-mercilessly started fighting off the men, snapping bones and cracking noses. My hands, however, couldn't move fast enough. The timer on the bomb wasn't just counting down for the destruction of the building; it was also counting down for me.

It was now or never, really. I struggled to get that stupid little velvet box out of my damn pocket, using my other hand to disarm the bomb.

She turned to glance at me, clearly annoyed by the outcome of the mission so far. While we _had_ gotten the hard drive from the computer, we'd been chased out of the hotel by a coterie of terrorists and we'd only just now managed to apprehend them all. "Matthew, what the hell is taking so long?" she scowled, tying up the men she'd knocked out.

Suddenly, it was like my whole world shifted. It wasn't like it had been on our first date, when I almost jumped at realizing how important she was to me. This time, it was like everything else didn't matter anymore—all I wanted was to be with her, to see her face and kiss her and _love_ her.

Her eyebrows flew up in shock as she noticed the bandage around my bullet wound that I had forgotten about. "Matt, you've been hit-"

"Rachel, my world revolves around you and you're the only person I'd ever compromise a mission for, please marry me," I said in one breath.

**2357 hours**

_Rachel_

I froze completely. My brain stopped working and the rope slipped out of my fingers as I stared at him. "What?"

Matthew didn't take his eyes off me as he showed me a black velvet box. "Will you marry me?" he repeated, opening it. Almost as an afterthought, he dropped onto one knee.

The world around us seemed to stop moving—the snow stopped falling and my heart slowed down, and I was suddenly at a loss for words. "Matthew, are you…" I began, looking from him to the ring and back, delighted and shocked and confused and stunned. "Matt, you're injured and we're on a rooftop in Europe in the middle of a mission and you're _proposing _to me! I…I don't even know what to say!"

He grinned, turning pink in the light from the moon and the skyline. "You could say 'yes,' for starters." Behind Matt, a last thug came at him, running heavily; before I could move, he stood up and lashed around to kick the thug into unconsciousness without letting go of the box. Then he turned to look back at me expectantly, going back to kneeling on one knee.

It was then that I realized I was the luckiest woman on earth.

"Yes. Yes, Matthew."

He slid the engagement ring on my finger and for a second, I could've sworn I was flying. He smiled breathlessly and I yanked him to me for a kiss; the moment our lips met, the clock struck twelve and fireworks burst behind us.

We pulled apart and I framed his face with both hands, smiling. "You planned this, didn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Maybe a little." He tightened his hold on my waist, pressing his forehead against mine. "I love you, Rachel."

"I love you too, Matt."


	10. Trouble

_(A/N: Sorry for the long break, beautiful readers. Grad school is a hell of a thing. But I'll try to publish 1 or 2 more chapters before finals week rolls around. There will probably be a Christmas chapter :D )_

* * *

January 24th, 2000

**1520 hours**

_Matt_

"Little lady, you have no clue how much trouble we're gonna be in when we get home." I grumbled, glancing into the rearview mirror at the little girl stuffed into the carseat.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. But you told me to always practice, and I—"

I flicked on my blinker. "I told you to always practice when your mother and I _let_ you."

She pouted, reminding me of Rachel and filling me simultaneously with fondness and complete and utter dread. "But I—"

"But nothing. You're lucky Mommy will be madder at me than she will at you."

Confusion made Cammie cock her head at me. "Why will she be madder at you?"

I sighed deeply. "It's complicated, little lady. I'll tell you when you're older, okay?"

"But Daddy—"

Struck by an epiphany, I interrupted my daughter with, "How do you feel about grabbing some ice cream before we get home, huh?" I asked, grinning.

"Ice cream!?" Cammie asked, delighted. But then she pouted again. "Wait. You gave Mommy chocolate that one time when you wanted her to do something for you. Are you doing that to me?"

For the hundredth time, I was amazed by Cammie's perceptiveness. I laughed aloud, taking a left to go to the ice cream parlor when we'd normally take a right to go home. "No, little lady, I'm not tricking you. I want some ice cream, too."

Cammie grinned. "Yay!"

I pulled into the parking lot of our favorite ice cream parlor and briefly thanked heaven that Rachel was trapped in Langley for the day, which meant I didn't have to call her just yet and tell her where Cam and I were. That storm would all come later, of course, but for the time being, I was perfect content to order a double scoop of chocolate fudge for me and a single scoop of cookies and cream for Cam.

Cammie tugged on my jeans. "But Daddy, I wanted two scoops…"

I shook my head. "No, little lady. It's bad enough I have to tell Mommy what happened, I don't want to give you that much sugar, too." I replied, and rumpled her hair while she pouted in disappointment. She might've been seven years old now, and looking more and more like Rachel and I every day, but the one thing that hadn't changed about her was her big, intelligent eyes. There was nothing she didn't notice, for a little girl, at least.

We took seats by the window and the spy in me prickled at this, but Cammie had insisted because she'd seen a puppy with its owners walking on the sidewalk, so I had no choice but to obey. I pulled a pen from my pocket and we played hangman until the server came with our bowls of ice cream.

"Daddy, why did Mommy have to go all the way to Langley today?" Cammie asked me, after figuring out my word in five tries for the fourth time. I wouldn't have been so impressed (and frustrated) if the words hadn't been, in order, _diligent, impertinent, flabbergasted,_ and _predilection_. She was too damn smart for her own good.

I sighed. Rachel and I had rehearsed a thousand answers to that question, but I still hated when Cammie asked it. Currently, Rachel was holed up in Langley to be debriefed on a mission gone almost-horribly wrong and treated for a pair of broken ribs, and even if Cammie knew what we did, I couldn't exactly tell her that her invincible mommy had been injured. "She just had some things to take care of, little lady. It's nothing big."

"You always say that, but you look kinda sad this time."

_Dammit_. "It's nothing bad. And just think—Mommy might be home when we get back."

This made Cammie brighten, and she started working at her ice cream with vigor. Sometimes I wondered what the consequences would be of Cam inheriting my sweet tooth, other than her constantly conspiring to steal M&M's from me.

We climbed back into the car and, while normally I would rush home, I wasn't particularly eager to explain to Rachel what had happened while she'd been gone. And of course, my wife was indeed home—the tracks from her suitcase were in the grass. The minute I stopped the car, Cammie tore out of the backseat and ran ahead of me. For a minute, I wasn't sure why she'd done it, seeing as I had the key, and then I realized that she'd pulled the house key off the lanyard.

I shook my head and grinned.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" Cammie disappeared into the house and I jogged up the pavement after her.

A chair screeched across the tile of the kitchen as Rachel stood up. "Hey there, kiddo."

I closed the door behind me and watched as Cammie hugged Rachel tightly. Rachel's expression tensed as the hug agitated her ribs, but she didn't pull back until Cam did. "How's my little girl?"

"I'm good, Mommy. Daddy and I went to get ice cream." Cammie said, a wide smile on her face. She scrunched her nose. "But he didn't let me get two scoops."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "You know you only get one scoop of ice cream, sweetie." She looked up at me. "Was she pestering you?"

I shook my head and Cammie shook hers; Rachel rolled her eyes and stood up.

"You two are way too alike for your own good." She kissed me on the cheek. "So how was your day?"

"Good" was what I _said_, but my face must've done something different because Rachel narrowed her eyes at me.

"Matthew…"

"It's not…Rachel, not now." I said and nodded down to Cammie, who was steadfastly attached to her mother's leg.

Rachel sighed. "Yeah. Later." She absently stroked Cammie's hair. "Anything particularly eventful happen while I was gone?"

_Other than figuring out that we might have a covert operations prodigy for a child_? "She's been doing great on her math quizzes."

**2050 hours**

_Matt_

I should've expected us to debate the topic, after Cammie was safely asleep. Rachel was normally made of steel but when it came to our daughter, everything was delicate and dangerous and protective. She turned to me in the kitchen, her arms crossed.

"Matthew, dammit. How did…"

"How did we let this happen?" I went into the fridge for some apple juice. "Well, we're two really good operatives, and we made a kid."

Rachel sighed, running a hand down her face. "She got out of the house and followed you halfway across town and through the Pentagon City Mall without being _seen_. That shouldn't be possible."

I gave her a crooked smile. "I told you, Rach. It's in her blood."

"Does that mean she's confined to it? Matt, I don't want her to feel like she _has_ to be anything, even if she does know what we do."

"We've talked about this, darlin.' Cam belongs at Gallagher—"

"What if she doesn't? I don't want her to be in danger all the time."

"She already is."

"She's _you_, Matthew!" Rachel snapped. Her anger was sudden and her dark eyes were bright in the dim kitchen lights. "Cam is three parts you and one part me, we've always known that. She's got your hair and your eyes and your sense of humor, and… She's a pavement artist, and she'll be a better one that you. And it scares the hell out of me."

I watched her as she retreated, crossing her arms loosely and looking away from me and down at the tile floor. "You think it doesn't scare me, too?" I put down my untouched glass of juice and walked up to her, holding her arms gently. "What do you want for Cameron?"

"What you do. I want her to be happy. I want her to do well in school and fall in love and travel the world and die a peaceful death in her own bed past age ninety. I want her to be happy." she murmured.

"Do you think she'd be happy at Gallagher?"

She gave me a ghost of a smile. "I think so. If she's like me at all, it'll be home for her. God forbid she ever meets Grace and Abe's daughter."

"Rebecca? Can you imagine what they'd get up to together? They'd keep the CIA and Six on their toes." I said, grinning at the prospect of Cammie and Bex—as she apparently insisted her parents call her—causing mayhem.

Rachel chuckled at this, finally letting out a real smile. She reached past me for the drawer where she kept her own chocolate stash and pulled out a few Reese's cups. We were silent for a little while, knowing that, for the time being, the weighty discussion of Cammie's future was on hold.

"Speaking of Gallagher, darlin,' did the brass mention anything to you about it?" I asked, daring to breach another topic I knew she disliked.

She let out a tired sigh. "Of course they did. Took advantage of my debrief and accosted me afterward."

"And?"

"What do you think I said? I'm not taking the job, I've never wanted it."

I shrugged. "You'd be a good Covert Ops teacher. And positions at Gallagher make bank, we both know that—"

"This isn't about the money, Matt. _You _know that," she said, cutting me off. "What makes them think an agent in her _prime_ would be willing to step out of the field for a teaching position? They never just _ask_ about Gallagher jobs. Roseville is a retirement plan, everyone at the Agency knows that."

"Because retirement for us always goes that smoothly," I said, unwilling to push back my sarcasm.

She glared at me. "Don't handle me, it's too late for that. What, you want me out of the field?" she said, half sarcastic.

This was true from a protective-husband standpoint, but the part of me that had seen her in action knew that a dumber notion couldn't exist. "Of _course_ not, you're too good at what you do."

"Then end of discussion, right?" She dropped the candy wrappers in the trash can and rinsed off her hands. "I'm gonna go make sure Cam's asleep."

"Yeah."

Rachel gave me a quick kiss before disappearing down the hall, and I fought back a quick shiver. Why did it feel like everything was always hanging by a thread?

* * *

_(A/N: Yes, those lines about working at Gallagher and spy retirement are shameless, kind of dark foreshadowing to what we know happens later. I couldn't help it.)_


End file.
